


get a rhythm going

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Anal Plug, BDSM, Birthday Presents, Breathplay, Cock Cages, Consensual Kink, Double Penetration, Established Relationship, Everyone Loves Seb, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Great Sub Seb Poly Universe, Love, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Naked Cuddling, Nipple Clamps, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Spanking, Sub Seb And His Harem Of Doms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7686841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian needs all of them. Different elements. One working whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	get a rhythm going

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ViperSeven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViperSeven/gifts).



> This just jumped into my head and refused to depart, courtesy of those "good boy" workout videos and Viper's encouragement. I don't even know, guys. I don't even.
> 
> Title courtesy of Pansy Division's song "Alpine Skiing," which is not about skiing. (Google the lyrics. Trust me, you want to.)
> 
> As ever, no disrespect or assumptions about the *actual* real lives of these people intended; this is fiction. :-)

Chris opens the door, hears that certain beloved voice say his name—Sebastian turning to look, perking up, smiling—and feels the weight of the world fall away from his shoulders. Unburdened. Free to be himself. Beckoned in and swept up by emotion. How can one voice, one word, turn the universe to gold?  
  
He ends up smiling back, helpless and fond. Sebastian, who’s been sitting in Anthony’s lap and adorned in only pajama pants and delicate nipple-clamps, the one that look like gilded antique coins, slides to both feet and runs over. “You’re back early!”  
  
“Missed you, kitten.” He loops a hand into dark hair; Sebastian purrs, melting into the kiss, yielding readily as Chris conquers his mouth. Those clamped nipples press against Chris’s chest; he knows this must resonate through every atom, as Sebastian gasps and tries to get even closer. Chris swats him playfully on the ass. Then raises eyebrows. “Starting without me, are you?”  
  
“You were taking too long.” Anthony salutes him with a half-full beer, lazy. “ ’Sides, we got a guest. Good manners.”  
  
“We weren’t really.” Wintersmoke eyes fill up with adorable concern: Sebastian knows he’s teasing but can’t help taking care of him. Chris’s good boy, with his big kind heart. Ready to encompass the world, and eager to please. “They only wanted to play with me a little. Nothing you haven’t said yes to.”  
  
“I know, sweetheart.” He squeezes Seb’s tempting ass. Finds again the end of the plug, the one their kitten’s wearing under loose silky pants, and taps. Sebastian squirms. Chris grins, pets his hair—keeping him cuddled close—and says over his head, “Hey, Damon, you’re early too.”  
  
Matt Damon waves from the chair across the room, legs sprawled out, relaxed. Chris’s furniture beams at them through lowering sunshine. This Los Angeles house is built for comfort, and knows it; comfort, of course, has a lot of meanings. Mostly it means home, rolling valley views and unfussy countertops and Sebastian’s expensive Shakespeare editions included.  
  
Matt explains, “Meetings got pushed to this week, flew out this morning, came right here, Anthony said you’d be cool with that,” and gets up to share a companionable back-thump. After, he touches Sebastian’s cheek, glancing at Chris for permission; Chris nods—Seb’s practically vibrating with happiness—and Matt tips Sebastian’s head back and kisses him soundly, getting him pinned between them. Chris holds him up, nudges hips forward, makes the plug shift inside him. Seb moans.  
  
Matt laughs, nipping at Sebastian’s lip once more, pulling away. “God, you’re fuckin’ sweet.”  
  
“He is.” The words make Sebastian glow; praise does every single time, and Chris loves that. “Our sweet kid.”  
  
Matt leans in and kisses Chris this time, quick and curious. Chris raises eyebrows—not something they’ve done before—and kisses back. Matt tastes like Irish coffee and Sebastian’s cherry chapstick, and asks for control of the kiss without words. Chris, who damn well enjoys switching from time to time—usually not with Seb, but Seb’s something else, Seb’s theirs and _his_ —lets his eyes slip shut, lets himself get explored and conquered; Matt’s another Boston guy, after all, so it’s like another kind of coming home.  
  
“Not bad,” Matt judges, grinning. Sebastian’s eyes are wide, watching; Matt’s other hand’s snuck between his legs, prompting small whimpers. “You do that a lot?”  
  
“Some.” Chris shrugs. “I’m not in charge around here.”  
  
“Ha,” says Don from the end of the couch, under his breath.   
  
“Nah, of course you’re not.” Anthony downs the end of his beer, smirks, adds, “Seb is.”  
  
Sebastian twists around in their grip, feline and flexible, and narrows eyes that way. “Fuck yes I am, and why aren’t you spanking me? Also thank you.” He means for the surprise; they’d been planning Matt’s visit as a birthday-present, though time-tables’ve clearly shifted. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t’ve been expecting company.   
  
Chris wishes he’d seen his kitten’s face. Damn Hollywood strategizing sessions. Damn traffic. Damn everything, even the fat primrose sunbeams; but oh well. He’s here now.  
  
Matt’s not technically a part of the partnership but has taken care of Seb recently, on set; Sebastian needs someone, and they’d all had projects, working lives, demands. This happens infrequently—normally at least one of them’s around—but this time had been one of the infrequent occasions. Chris, who’d literally bumped into Matt and Ben Affleck at a very specific leather-lined shop a couple of years back, had run the idea by Seb, who’d nodded; they’d had Matt over for dinner two weeks before Ridley Scott needed his cast on location, and had outlined the proposition and rules. Matt’s eyes had lit up like Christmas morning. Sebastian’d been kneeling at his feet by the end of the night, Matt’s hand stroking his hair.  
  
Sebastian does need someone. That’s a truth, shining like the low-hanging glimmer of sundown outside, painted in jewel tones across the sky. Sebastian’s got the most open and generous heart Chris has ever known, but such tenderness can be easily bruised. Seb tries so hard and gives so much of himself, and he wants so badly to be good; he always has. Pleasing people, taking care of people, reaching out: _will this work, did you like that, want me to do it again, is there something else you’d like instead, is that coffee hot enough, oh no here have mine, I’d rather you have it anyway…_  
  
Sebastian _does_ need someone, because he’ll give and give and worry himself to pieces over not having done enough, because for all his self-deprecating humor and the wry it’s-in-the-past twist he gives to casually unnerving stories about Communism and food rationing, he’s that sweet kid at heart. Mischievous, clumsy, passionate, ridiculously in love with outer space and fluffy cats with folded-over ears, needing a firm hand at times, and above all wanting to earn words of approval. Chris loves him unreservedly, forever.  
  
Anthony says, answering Seb’s teasing question, “Why aren’t you over here on my lap, kid?” and beckons. Sebastian glances up at Chris and Matt.   
  
Matt shrugs at him—“Your house, baby, you do what you want, as long as I get to watch you—” and Chris kisses him one more time, trailing lips lower and scraping the beard over his throat, leaving pink smudges at his bare collarbone. “Go on. Put on a show for us.”  
  
Sebastian’s eyes sparkle. He goes.  
  
Anthony lets him start to sit down, and then says, “Nope. Strip.” Sebastian flushes prettily, hooks thumbs into pajama pants, starts to slide them down—  
  
—and does so excruciatingly slowly, millimeter by millimeter of sunkissed skin. His smile’s wicked provocation.  
  
“Brat,” Anthony says, with affection. “You’re askin’ for it, aren’t you?” This gets a cheerful head-tilt of confirmation; everyone chuckles. “Okay,” Anthony agrees. “We can show Matt how we handle that. Gonna turn that pretty ass all pink for him, so he can watch.”  
  
Matt looks impressed. And aroused. Chris grins, strips off his own shirt and jacket—he hadn’t even gotten undressed, greeting their sweet boy—and after a second’s worth of thought, jeans too. They’re getting confining. Tight.  
  
Anthony’s shirtless as well, wearing loose shorts in California heat; Don’s dressed in a t-shirt and gym shorts, but then Sebastian’s trainer and third Dominant dresses like that even in New York snow, being some kind of alien creature with immunity to cold plus glorious biceps. He scoots closer, runs a hand along Sebastian’s left knee: professional and loving. Anthony throws a glance that way; Sebastian’s naked now and poised for orders, waiting.   
  
Actually Sebastian’s not naked. Wearing a cock cage. Chris stops breathing for a second; Matt mutters an awed blasphemy beside him. It’s one of the gentler ones, three slim leather straps, not metal or sharp, but it’s onyx-black against flushed stiffness, and it’ll hurt more the more his cock tries to swell. Matches the sleek plug inside him, and complements the shiny clamps on his nipples, too.   
  
Don nods in approval regarding the knee, so they get Sebastian onto the couch, handled and arranged and put into position. His hips’re at just the right spot for Anthony’s hand; Sebastian’s head’s pillowed on Don’s thigh, where one callused hand can pet his hair and keep him steady.   
  
“Ten,” Anthony decides. Sebastian peeks up from under the hand to inquire, “Only ten?”  
  
“Shut up, brat. You get what we say you get.”  
  
“Yes _sir_ ,” Sebastian says, cheeky enough to be asking for more. They trade looks; Don slides the hand over and covers that sarcastic happy mouth, not coincidentally blocking Seb’s air. Pale blue eyes go very wide, then cloud over: slipping under, turning dreamy, reminded of command. Sebastian hits subspace easily with any form of dominance and possession, verbal or physical; he gets off on being good and being made to be good and following orders. Chris watches the languor spread through his body, watches pert comebacks drain away and get replaced by honeyed surrender.  
  
Don keeps the hand over his mouth and nose. Reminds him softly, “You want this, baby, this is what you got us for, so we can tell you what you deserve.” Sebastian moans behind smothering weight, body moving, twitching, reacting. Their kitten has excellent breath control, and they play with that from time to time; he’s in no real danger, and Don of all of them knows exactly where Seb’s physical limits lie. It’s the fact of the situation: the knowledge that his very breaths are up to them. His eyelashes flutter: undiluted bliss.   
  
“Jesus,” Matt whispers. “Can he come like that?”  
  
“Yeah. Come here.” He tugs Matt over with a kiss; Matt absentmindedly puts a hand on the back of his neck. Chris kneels down by the sofa, leaning in while Matt rests the hand on his head, standing above him. “Hey, kitten.”  
  
Don checks Sebastian’s eyes—hazy, unfocused, thoroughly lost in submission—and lifts the hand. Sebastian shifts to find Chris, blinking gradually, slow. “Chris…”  
  
“Right here.” Chris rubs his back, long reaffirming caresses. “Matt wants to know if you can come like this. Your pretty little cock all tied up, Anthony spanking you as hard as he can, me and Don letting you up for air when we want…”  
  
“Please,” Sebastian whimpers. “Yes, yes, please…”  
  
“Such a good boy.” The praise lands like a shower of sparks; Sebastian’s hips rock into Anthony’s thigh. Chris suggests, “Want something in that mouth?” and Don’s already ahead of him, shoving shorts down, guiding Seb’s eager mouth to his thick blunt cock. Sebastian takes the girth without flinching, and more than one of them groans as the length disappears down that elegant throat. Sebastian hadn’t had much of a gag reflex to begin with; he’s got none at all these days. He’s awake enough to tease a little with lips and tongue, from Don’s expression; Anthony tsks in mock disapproval, says, “Time to punish you for that, brat,” and brings a hand down.  
  
Seb moans around the cock in his mouth. His ass burns pink, handprint seared into skin. Anthony’s not holding back.  
  
“I’ll count for you,” Chris tells him, “you’ve got a job to do, kitten,” and pushes his head down until his lips are wrapped around the base, nose buried in a tangle of dark hair. “One.”  
  
Two and three land hard in the same spot; Sebastian sobs briefly as his skin darkens. He’s writhing under the blows; his cock’s dripping copiously, wetness smearing Anthony’s shorts. The cage must be agonizing, as each impact rocks him into Anthony’s thigh. He loves it, though; he could tap out, they’ve practiced those hand signals, and he could stop this at any time. They’d cuddle him through the aftermath and feed him blueberry ice-cream. They have before.  
  
Anthony switches sides. Sebastian’s losing coordination, no longer properly sucking or licking, simply openmouthed and accepting as Don fucks his mouth and throat, thrusting up into him. Chris slips fingers into his mouth alongside the shaft, stretching plush lips. Sebastian tries weakly to suckle at them, wracked by sensation, overcome. Chris tells him how good he is, how beautiful he looks, how well he’s doing. Sebastian sighs and slips further away, calming, tear-tracks on his cheeks, mouth wet. He can indeed come like this, in his restraints; it’ll hurt like hell, his body bound and sensation trapped inside, but he can. Especially given the support of orders.  
  
“Seven,” Chris says, as the next one lands back on the first side but closer to the black bloom of the plug in that sweetheart hole. “Eight.” Matt’s got a fist around his cock, breathing fast; Chris turns and looks up, and Matt asks with questioning eyebrows. Chris loves sucking cock almost as much as Seb does, loves the weight and the thickness and the maleness, primal and glorious, and Matt’s temptingly proportioned all over. He leans in and licks. Matt grunts softly as if struck by sensation; Chris pays him a bit more attention, and then pulls off and murmurs, “Nine, sweet boy, nearly done, one more, you can take it,” in Sebastian’s ear.  
  
Sebastian’s gorgeously abandoned to heat and stimulation and need, squirming under blows, both sets of cheeks flushed red: one from lack of air, one from intense spanking. He’s rubbing hips into Anthony’s leg as if he can’t stop himself.  
  
“You come when I let you, remember?” Chris trails one sticky finger over his cheek, beside his eye, leaving wetness. “Only when I let you. Because you’re a good boy.”  
  
“Harsh, Evans,” Anthony says. “I was gonna let him come on ten.”  
  
“He needs a little more.” Chris puts his hand on the nape of Sebastian’s neck, where silky brown hair’s darker, damp from exertion, curling. “Just a little. But go ahead and finish.” Don’s holding Sebastian’s wrists, being gentle but assertive; Sebastian this far under has no good sense of self, of control of limbs, of random shudders and jerks. Anthony raises the hand, aims, lands the last one. Hard. Right over the visible base of the plug, jolting it. Sebastian wails—that one’s sharp enough to’ve gotten through euphoric waves.  
  
Chris himself isn’t the best at hurting their kitten. Sebastian needs that sometimes, he understands: needs boundaries and consequences. Sebastian’s absolutely got a bratty side and will flirt with Sharon Stone on camera or make lube-related jokes to a crowd of fans or tell Mackie, straight-faced, that the word for “chicken” in Romanian is another word entirely, one which had turned out to be incredibly filthy and had caused local production crew to drop a ladder while laughing. Sebastian’s playful in the way that kittens are, testing limits, wanting scoldings and the pleasure of being chastised and humiliated. He gets off on that, Chris knows: reassertion of his own belonging to them. Anthony’s made him kneel in the corner all evening before; has made him bring himself to release by rutting against the floor or a table-leg and then lick it clean—that’d been for the Sharon Stone evening, and Anthony’d decided that if he was that desperate, he could get himself off like an animal. Sebastian had spent the night nonverbal and dazed and tactile in the aftermath, clinging to them, lapping water from a cupped hand; but had said upon waking up that he felt about a hundred times lighter and more free.  
  
Chris can’t stand watching Sebastian cry, though. Not from hurt and punishment, anyway. Too softhearted. Too ready to scoop him off the cruel floor and cuddle him and tell him that everything’s all right, he’s safe and loved, they’re not mad anymore, he did what they asked and it’s over now. Ten seconds of those big blue eyes welling up with tears, and Chris turns into a puddle right there with him, apologizing, swearing they’ll never hurt him.  
  
Which is why Sebastian needs all of them. Different elements. One working whole.  
  
He says to Matt, “Come here,” and tips his head at Seb’s glowing backside. “You can touch.”   
  
Their arrangement with Matt’d previously had precise limitations. Sebastian, like a lot of submissives, goes into spirals of loneliness and withdrawal and emptiness when away from his partners for too long, unanchored and physically showing symptoms of depression. Matt had been brilliant: giving him orders both sexual and service-oriented, making him kneel, petting him, tying him up and teasing him and milking streams of liquid release from his body. But they’d been clear about the limits of authority: Matt had only punished him for minor deliberate infractions, and only lightly. Matt had agreed, and had also agreed to delineations regarding play: enough for relief, nothing more intense than spankings, light bondage, orgasm control, a couple of small toys. Nothing like this.  
  
Relief for them both, that’d been: Matt misses Ben when they’re apart too, though Chris has never inquired about the exact nature of that relationship and sharing outside. Sebastian’s special anyway; not as if Matt—or anyone—would say no to _that_ sort of miraculous offer.  
  
Of course Chris had gotten daily check-ins from them both. Keeping an eye on things. Fussing, Anthony says. Fine by him.  
  
“Kitten,” he says to Sebastian, “gonna let Matt touch you, let him feel how hot you are, how good you are, taking everything,” and Sebastian whines low and eager and wriggles in place, so that’s a yes. Matt’s hand touches with a surprising lack of hesitation; Chris personally might’ve been more tentative—Seb’s backside’s awfully red—but Sebastian moans and arches his back and lifts into the touch, so maybe Chris is worrying too much again. Matt looks as if someone’s given him the keys to about fifty heavens, and has invited him to play with angels.  
  
“He likes sensation,” Don contributes helpfully.   
  
“Yeah?” Matt explores. Taps fingers over burning marks. Scratches: nails over sensitized skin. Sebastian cries out, quivering. “God, he’s so hot…and that skin, Jesus, everything just shows right up, doesn’t it? Like this, right here…” That one’s a pinch, bright and quick. Red blossoms across smooth skin. “Just fuckin’ beautiful.” The Boston accent comes out: _right here, fuck, beautiful_. Chris is breathless with love and want and pride. Sebastian’s so good. So perfect. Recognized as such by their guest. Naturally. Who wouldn’t?  
  
Matt’s other hand’s still loosely stroking his own cock, fat and shiny between fingers, jutting out of jeans. Chris has an idea, grins, offers, “You want to come on him, and we’ll let him come like that? You did say you wanted to see it…”  
  
“Oh holy fuck yeah.” Matt’s gaze moves down to Seb, who’s crying a little, quietly shifting in place as if his bound cock aches. It must. “Baby, you heard that? You know what we want to do?”  
  
Chris, kneeling by Seb’s face—Sebastian’s mouthing at Don’s cock, uncoordinated, unable to hold his head up but craving stiffness to suckle—strokes dark hair out of his eyes. “When he does, when you feel that, you can, okay?” And he sees the faint nod.   
  
“Beautiful,” Matt says again, and rakes nails across Sebastian’s pink left cheek, leaving lines. Sebastian’s whole body shakes; Matt’s hand speeds up, working his own cock. Anthony puts a hand between Seb’s legs and pulls the plug out partway and shoves it in again, length slick with lube and disappearing into Seb’s hole; Matt swears and groans and comes, climax splattering across Sebastian’s upturned ass and lower back and thighs, painting him with white-hot rain. Sebastian instantly goes tense below him, muscles taut, tightening with an orgasm that must feel like exquisite anguish, restrained as he is. His hole clenches around the plug; he trembles, coming apart.  
  
Don, Chris notices, is holding his head down: forcing that cock back into his throat and getting him to swallow when that orgasm hits. Sebastian tries, chokes, swallows again, and goes peacefully limp, letting one or two last thrusts push up into his throat with no resistance. A trickle of white escapes lax lips; he’s not completely out, awake enough to stir when Chris puts out a finger and collects the dribble and pushes it back into his mouth. He laps at Chris’s finger dreamily, delicately.  
  
“Bed, maybe,” Anthony suggests, and Chris nods.   
  
Sebastian can’t walk. Don cradles him effortlessly, and Chris kisses his forehead. Anthony’s shorts are thoroughly wet: his own desire, but also Sebastian’s climax, restrained by rings of leather but forceful enough to spill. The cock cage is wet and they’ll have to take it off; damp leather might chafe tender skin. Chris’s heart swells up with pride anew. Their kitten’s so good: coming on command, coming even when it hurts so badly, bound and tamed.   
  
The sun’s gone, outside. Anthony flips on lights: silky topaz lampgleam, pooling welcome across dark floorboards. The bed looms in elaborate four-poster wrought-iron, excited. Blue satin rope nestles atop one side table from previous use, and waves hello.  
  
Matt sits down on the end of the bed, wobbly. “Am I…invited? Or…”  
  
“Stay,” Chris answers. “He likes you.” He’s cuddling Sebastian; by unspoken agreement, this is the default. Sebastian makes a small broken noise and hides his face in Chris’s chest; Anthony settles along his other side and rubs his arm and talks to him, low and full of praise. Don’s checking Seb’s knee again, tiny crease between brows.  
  
“How is he?” Chris asks, trying not to listen to fretful nibbling teeth gnawing on his heart. Small teeth for now, but present. “We didn’t…”  
  
“Nope, he’s okay.” Don kisses Sebastian’s thigh above the troublesome spot. Seb had landed wrong doing an obstacle course challenge three weeks before. Had twisted that joint in ways it shouldn’t go. Don had said, making a horrified phone call to Chris from outside the hospital room, _I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life, I knew when his hand slipped he was gonna land bad, I’m so sorry, it’s my fault for pushing him, and he just looked up at me and tried to tell me it was okay, with fucking tears in those eyes…_  
  
Sebastian had—annoyingly convincingly—argued that the accident was no one’s fault. A fluke. A slip. Anyone could’ve landed badly. Don, who loves Sebastian with his entire blustery New York heart, had broken down in tears himself when Chris had arrived, and had ducked into the closest hospital men’s room for a while.  
  
_Not_ Don’s fault. Training accidents happen. To superhero actors and actresses more than most, even. Physical demands and tightly honed performances. Extraordinary feats required.  
  
Given that, they’ve all reassured Don that this incident’s not his doing. A tiny corner of the ugliest part of Chris’s heart’s still working on that one—Don’s their kitten’s fucking trainer, should’ve done something, should’ve been more careful—but he knows it’s irrational.   
  
The bedroom’s safe and soft and decadent around them. Smooth sheets and the flutter of Sebastian’s pulse under his fingertips, the weight of Sebastian’s pliant well-used body resting against his.  
  
Sebastian loves Don, because Seb loves all of them. Don’s sometimes a bit ambivalent about the arrangement, Chris suspects—he’d initially been here for Seb—but loves them because Seb does and because over the years they’ve become pieces of each other’s lives. That heartbreak at having been the one present for Seb’s injury hadn’t only been for Sebastian. Chris had been the one who’d gone to find their third partner and had put an arm around him, sitting on the men’s room floor, and promised they didn’t hate him, kind of the opposite, they loved him too.  
  
Don kisses Seb’s inner thigh. Strips off the cock cage; examines wounded flesh with professionally evaluative eyes. Cups his poor abused balls in one hand, caressing, petting. “Can you tell me if anything hurts, baby?”  
  
Seb shakes his head. Hides in Chris’s arms more. “Shh,” Chris says, “that’s fine, that’s okay, you don’t have to talk, but we need to know, we’re a little worried since you’re healing, that’s all,” and pokes Don’s shoulder with a foot. “Ask specific questions.”  
  
“Right, sorry…if you can, baby, I want you to bend that leg, okay? Show me you can? Stop if it hurts.” Sebastian obediently flexes and extends, even pointing his toes to demonstrate; he’s so well behaved when he’s in subspace, docile and acquiescent and heartrendingly innocent in eagerness to please.   
  
“Good,” Don says, “good boy,” and Sebastian mumbles inarticulate syllables against Chris’s chest, heavy and languid and easily aroused. His cock’s hard again between his thighs. Anthony’s playing with his nipples and the clamps: tugging slightly, causing pain. Sebastian whines, stirring in the circle of Chris’s arms, confused and needing. Chris soothes him with words and caresses.  
  
“My turn,” Anthony says, and does something Chris can’t quite see that makes Seb gasp and Matt groan. Probably playing with the plug, from the angle. “How about I get this out of you, kid, and you get me inside you instead? Filling you up, nice and big, the way you love it?”  
  
Sebastian mouths the yes, no sound making it out, head lolling against Chris’s chest. Anthony kisses the back of his neck. Chris asks, “You want me to move?”  
  
“Nah, you can hold him.” Anthony smirks, leans over to smack Chris’s hip. “Know how much you like watching me fuck him.” Chris does. He really, really does.   
  
They share Seb among the three of them, but they don’t share with outside partners much; sometimes they do, as with Matt, but they’re picky about invitations. Robert Downey Jr has a standing welcome. His wife’s not interested in joining, though they’d say yes if she wanted to come along, but she doesn’t mind if Robert does. RDJ mostly likes slow and tender and sincere, anyway; he’s been there and done that with the kink, and he enjoys simply having a sweet pet to cherish and kiss. Sebastian also loves this, and will happily get on his knees or his back for Robert’s kindness at any time. Hell, so will the rest of them. Simultaneously.  
  
Other than that, it’s been a night or two with a couple of Seb’s old college friends, people he knows well and trusts, people who’ve seen him through some rough patches and some jubilant ones. One of them’d been the person who’d introduced him to dominance and submission; Chris had tried not to be envious when imagining that first time and the light in winter-sea eyes. Had been reminded by Sebastian’s next kiss of the present day, and how much he’s loved now.  
  
He kisses Sebastian while Anthony eases reddened sore cheeks apart and slips the thick dark plug out. Sebastian whimpers softly at the emptiness; Chris says, “I know, kitten, I know, we’ll take care of you,” and licks at his mouth, tasting bittersweet come and salt from tears and love that’s painful in its immensity, love everyplace as Seb submits and yields and opens up, blindly trusting him. Chris plays with a trapped nipple and makes him sob: emotions right on the surface, senses overloaded.  
  
He’s aware of Matt watching, of Don rubbing Sebastian’s leg and hip; they’ve managed to all end up naked, which used to be a source of anxiety at least for Chris but by now is second nature among their partnership. Sebastian shivers against him, mindless with pleasure: being petted and massaged and taken care of, bliss spiked with just enough pain for the endorphin rush.   
  
Chris says to Matt—who is after all a guest and who’s taken such good care of Seb for them—“Hey, I did say you were invited,” and Matt gulps and scoots over and lands a kiss on Chris’s eyebrow. “Am I?”  
  
“Feel free,” Anthony says, fingers busy making Sebastian squirm and arch against them. Seb’s cock drips slick beads of glistening desire. Anthony must be playing with the right spot inside him, but Seb knows he’s not allowed to come without permission. “He loves bein’ played with.”  
  
Sebastian murmurs something else dazed and half-English into Chris’s chest; Chris catches, “Want…please…” and laughs, and strokes his hair. “Yeah, he absolutely does. Askin’ for it.”  
  
“Well, okay, then,” Matt agrees, and as Anthony’s fingers stretch Seb’s slick lovely hole, Matt’s fingers slide in too. Muscles ripple, trying to draw them in further, delirious with the joy of being opened up and used. Matt crooks the fingers just so and Seb’s body stiffens, a delicious bowstring-arch of ecstasy. His cock spills another spurt of wetness against Chris’s hip; Chris puts a hand on his throat, fingers loosely wrapped around the column of his neck, and reminds him, “You come when I let you, so _behave._ ” Sebastian sags against him, crying from rapturous denial.  
  
“Got an idea,” Anthony muses, rolling to his back, pulling Seb’s obedient body atop him. Chris moves with them: providing support for sensation-drunk evening-watercolor eyes. Beloved pale opal-blue’s drowning in black, swimming with hazy desire and submission. “Come here, baby, you know how much you need this, my cock inside you…”  
  
He slides in with no difficulty. Seb’s wet and ready from the plug and the fingers, and Chris groans—echoed by everyone else—at the sight: Anthony’s thick dark shaft disappearing into their kitten’s waiting flower-pink opening.   
  
Seb’s too unfocused at this point to do much besides rock himself back and forth on Anthony’s cock, mouth hanging open, body shuddering with pleasure. Chris keeps him upright and toys with his nipples, popping open one of the clamps to make him cry out and jerk in place as sensation floods back. The nipple’s red and sore; Chris kisses it, strokes the bud with his tongue, and puts the clamp back on. Seb tries to simultaneously ride Anthony’s cock and curl up sobbing, and ends up clinging to Chris in bewildered anguished delight.  
  
“Evans,” Anthony says, hands on Seb’s hips. “He good for more?”  
  
Chris checks Sebastian’s eyes, lifts his chin, asks, “Color, kitten?” Seb’s lips shape _green_ without noise; his fingers curl in against Chris’s chest, a tiny vulnerable gesture that shatters Chris’s heart and rebuilds it anew, made of powerful shields and his vow to protect this man always.  
  
Because he hasn’t made a decision yet, Seb apparently thinks more’s required, and tries to be good. “More…Chris…green…if you want, Chris, please, ’s up to you, ’m yours…” He can barely talk, words blurring together, pleading and pure.  
  
“Oh, love.” Chris hastily cuddles him close again, petting his hair. “Shh, it’s okay, I know, I know you’re mine, of course you are, so good for me, my good boy.” Sebastian relaxes more, trusting him. “I know you want me to tell you what you get to have. Right now I think we should let Matt enjoy you too, don’t you? Showing him how good you can be? How you can take everything we ask?”  
  
And Seb nods, spaced-out but hearing him, accepting.  
  
At Chris’s nod, Matt traces fingers around their kitten’s rim, where he’s stretched by the girth of Anthony’s cock. Works one finger in. Then two. Sebastian pants, breaths swift, eyelashes lowering, lifting. Don’s ended up on his other side, keeping an eye out for actual pain or weakness—Seb might be too far under to register it as anything not bliss, one danger they’ve learned to watch out for—and also toying with his poor unrelieved cock and balls, deliberately denying him any kind of predictable rhythm.  
  
Seb’s body opens up, giving way to invasion. He’s taken multiple cocks before, though Matt’s awfully large and long, and it’s been a while since the whole partnership’s had him at once. This’ll work, but it’ll be a challenge.  
  
When Matt pushes just the head inside, Sebastian whimpers. That thickness pops past shiny muscle and doesn’t let up, pushing deeper. Anthony groans, feeling it all with Seb atop him and Matt sliding in. Sebastian starts crying in earnest, tears spilling like diamonds from twin winter lakes, but his cock’s dripping steadily too, and he tries to push back and take more. Chris, watching him get penetrated and plundered and filled up by two cocks at once, feels his own arousal throb heavy and hot between thighs. Sebastian’s so gorgeous. So incredible. So fearless, taking anything they demand of him and begging to go further.   
  
He ignores his own body screaming for release. This is about Seb, about giving Seb every drop of attention and pleasure and relief that those sweet eyes crave. Sebastian needs to be taken care of and taken out of his head and made mindless and wanton with ecstasy; his partners will damn well ensure that this happens. Forever. Every day.  
  
“Christ—” Matt’s swearing under his breath. Anthony groans, shifts hips; they get a rhythm worked out, push and pull and push again, thrusting deep into Sebastian’s shaking body. Chris holds him mostly upright, bent forward over one arm, and tugs at nipple-clamps, feeling body-warmed metal. Seb clenches instinctively; Matt grunts and slams into him harder.  
  
“I want you to come when I say you can,” Chris breathes hot over one ear, “like this, gettin’ fucked by two big cocks at once, my hands on you—” and shoves fingers into Sebastian’s mouth. “Suck.” Sebastian tries, less because of command and more because that’s all he knows how to do by now. Don glances up, hand faster on Seb’s rigid flushed shaft, standing stiffly up and leaking so much it looks like he’s come already.  
  
Chris nods, and Don starts jerking him off in earnest, harder and on the brink of too intense, the way Seb loves; Chris pushes his fingers deeper into that plush mouth, slack and wet around them, and orders, “Come.”  
  
Sebastian’s entire body tightens and sways: a long rolling convulsion of bliss. He makes a low sound around Chris’s fingers; his cock jerks and spills a seemingly endless stream of release, white heat pooling over Don’s hand, overflowing to Anthony’s stomach below. He comes and comes, so much, impaled by twin cocks and Chris’s fingers, commanded by voice and touch.  
  
“Christ,” Matt shudders out, and then throws back his head and groans, visibly tipping over the peak, flooding Seb’s doubly stuffed hole with his climax. Anthony manages, “Yeah, fuck, like that—” and snaps hips upward, hands biting down on Seb’s waist, and Chris whispers to Seb, “You feel that, you feel them filling you up, makin’ you filthy with it, makin’ you ours, all ours,” and Seb cries and twitches incoherently and spasms again, another weak dribble of come trickling from his slit.  
  
They collapse and lie in a heap for a minute or two, dazed. In awe.   
  
Sebastian’s crying freely, not loudly but continuously, overcome by immensity. Chris cradles him while Anthony and Matt slip out; Seb’s hole flutters and vainly tries to close, but can’t, gaping wide and messy. Trickles of climax and lube follow the withdrawal; Seb whimpers, left empty, needing to be full. Somewhere in there Don came too, a second time, splashing him with it; he’s sticky with all of them, limp in surrender, someplace beyond thought and full of rainbows.  
  
Chris praises him, tells him how good he’s being, kisses him. So does Matt. So do Anthony and Don: everybody chiming in, breathless. The bedroom’s hot and sex-drenched and wonderful. California at night. Tangled sheets and limbs and sweat and release.  
  
Coiled jewel-blue rope winks at him from the side of the bed. Yeah, Chris thinks back, appreciating. Exactly.  
  
“Sweet boy,” he says, softly. Hand in Sebastian’s hair. Hand rubbing Sebastian’s hip. “One more.”  
  
Sebastian looks up at him, eyes wide as desert skies at sundown, boundless horizons opening up for him to conquer. Two already, and a third orgasm’ll balance on the border of pain and glory, drawn relentlessly from his overstimulated body and spent cock; but he nods, lips parted, solemn as a contract signed.  
  
Chris eases him to his back. Bends to remove heavy gold nipple-clamps. Fresh tears stand out in those eyes, easy and ready to fall. Chris kisses them away. Naked together, both of them.  
  
Their sheets spread out midnight-blue and silky. Made for Sebastian’s skin. Made for intimacy, loving, being loved. Sebastian trembles when Chris rubs fingers, a thumb, over his stretched-out hole: wet and messy with others’ climaxes, pink and puffy and thoroughly fucked. Chris strokes hands along his inner thighs, soothing.  
  
Don’s a good guy inside and out, genuine and loyal. Anthony’s the funniest of them all and the most self-confident, charming, charismatic. Chris adores them. Chris hopes to be worthy of them. Chris believes in love, and always has.  
  
They all orbit around Sebastian. Planets circling a bouncing ball of sun. Guiding light. North star. Compass-point. Home.  
  
Sebastian makes their lives more radiant and more richly textured. Blueberry pancakes on lazy mornings. Spontaneous taxicab karaoke. Always, always, boundless excitement and enthusiasm and willingness to _try_ : whether that means doing his own stunts or writing a new short story or looking up ice dildos on the internet. He’s theirs and they’re his. Wholeheartedly. No reservations. Nothing to change or wish for. Not here.  
  
He’s theirs and they’re his, and he loves them all: true. They each give him what he needs: also true.   
  
One more quiet unremarked truth: if Sebastian belongs, truly _belongs_ , to any one of them—  
  
Chris has never been so honored, so humbled. Ever since that first screen test. Ever since those bright eyes had looked him up and down, and those curving lips had curled into a kitten-smile. Sebastian’d brought coffee for everyone at the first table-read, with the expression of someone astonished to be there; when he’d handed Chris a cup, their fingers had brushed. The shock had run through Chris head to toe, lightning-bolt recognition he didn’t even have a name for. Sebastian’s lips had parted, breath poised on an inhale.  
  
Chris loves him so fiercely, so deeply, that sometimes he wonders how he existed before Sebastian. Before this resplendent certainty like gold laced through his bones, profound and bedrock-true.  
  
He’s not the best at punishing Sebastian, no. He doesn’t have the practiced physicality of a personal fitness expert. He falls over his own words.  
  
And Don’s joke earlier about Chris being in charge is only that, a joke—Sebastian’s in charge, has chosen each one of them, would defend them to the death with Winter Soldier muscle and knife-tricks—but carries an element of honesty without resentment.   
  
He kisses Sebastian. Gets into position atop him, above him. Seb gazes up at him with devout surrender, aglow with Chris’s presence.  
  
Chris decides what Sebastian can have when those blue eyes want to relinquish control. Chris holds out arms when Sebastian needs to feel safe and snug and protected. Chris reads him the best, emotions glimmering and shifting behind pale eyes like moonbeams on a lake: fear of flying and adoration of sweet coffee, giddy pinball exuberance at conventions, self-directed pensive not-good-enough darker moods, brightening right up at reassurance that he’s done well and made someone happy. Sebastian trusts Chris to know him inside and out and to—by consent, when appropriate, when Seb needs to stop thinking and give himself over to firmness and command—determine what’s best for him, on his behalf.  
  
They all tacitly recognize that’s so. They also know that Sebastian loves and needs each one of them. They know that they love each other, for their own sakes and for his. Any strain on the partnership’s long ago evaporated.  
  
He drops a kiss on Seb’s nose. Sebastian wiggles under him, gymnast-flexible, voiceless and euphoric.  
  
Ever since those early press conferences, when Seb’d glanced at him for permission to speak, they’ve fit together that way. Chris kisses him awake in the mornings and arranges temporary privileges for Matt and Robert and anyone else Seb wants, and Chris has final say on anything involving care for their kitten, and if anyone ever hurts Sebastian Chris will wade in with Boston-boy fists swinging.   
  
Care, he thinks. Maybe that’s it: just his heart. That’s all Sebastian needs from him. He’ll give it gladly. Every beat spilling life into Seb’s cupped hands.   
  
He nudges Seb’s body with his cock, teasing glide of hardness over sensitive space. Seb whines, lip caught between teeth, but doesn’t argue. He’ll take what Chris gives him.  
  
Anthony’s taking turns intently kissing Don and Matt next to them, making sure no one’s left out; so that’s all right, everybody taken care of, and Chris is free to focus on Sebastian. On those winter-holiday eyes, on the way Seb responds and stirs and moves at his touch like a rose bending to the day, pink and flushed and dew-sweet. On the way Seb yields and Chris slides right in, buried to the hilt in slick lush heat. Sebastian’s mouth opens as Chris draws back and thrusts again, a soundless cry of mute joy.  
  
“I love you,” Chris whispers, Chris swears to him, Chris promises. “I love you, we love you, you’re ours and we love you.” Sebastian’s eyes stay locked on his, cradled in that knowledge, serene and soaring.  
  
Chris moves inside him, loves him, makes love to him. Gentle at first because Seb must be sore; faster as Seb moans and arches hips into each thrust. Those pianist’s hands try to reach for him but can’t lift far, clumsy and heavy and slow as glass; Chris gathers both wrists tenderly in one hand above Seb’s head on the pillow. An anchor, an affirmation. “Love you, kitten.”  
  
Sebastian’s eyes shine. The night laughs, the kind of laughter that’s a poem, a radiant heart-song, a shooting star.  
  
“I want to feel you come for me,” Chris tells him, “like this, right now, looking at me,” and Sebastian trembles and does: not a supernova explosion this time but a prolonged silent rocking beneath him, impaled on Chris’s cock, as if dissolving into stardust.  
  
Chris lunges down and captures those parted lips in a kiss, a paradox of rough tenderness, cherishing the feel and the taste and the scent of him. Chris’s body catches up and billows with lightning, climax like spring rain and revelation and the heartbeat of elation at the center of the world, full of love.   
  
He keeps Seb tucked into his arms as they come down. The rest of the group rolls over and nestles close for cuddles too; Chris pets whomever he can reach one-handed and gets kissed in turn, and everybody lavishes caresses and low-voiced praise on Sebastian. Keeping him grounded, letting him come back to earth gradually. Making sure he knows how good he’s been, how much he’s loved.  
  
Seb’s eyelashes flicker. He’s drifting: subspace and exhaustion. He’ll need to sleep. The night lies over their sticky bodies, settling a benevolent blanket on sated need and contentment.  
  
Chris nuzzles Sebastian’s forehead, someplace between a kiss and a scratchy caress of beard. “Kitten? You back with us?”  
  
“No,” Seb murmurs. “Fuzzy. Sparkly. Good. I can’t…”  
  
“Can’t wake up yet? That’s fine, you don’t have to, but I want to check on you, okay? Thanks,” he adds as Don hands over water. “Just a sip or two. You can wake up enough for that. Orders.”  
  
Sebastian yawns, plaintive and uninhibited, and drowsily finishes half a bottle of water plus some nibbles of bedside aftercare chocolate, and puts his head back down on Chris’s chest. “Tired, Chris…”  
  
“I know, baby. But you feel good, right? Nothing hurting, nothing we should know about, you’re warm enough, you feel safe?”   
  
Seb lifts that head with what looks like herculean effort, blinks at him twice, says, “Warm and safe and good, yes…I love you, all of you…nap now, please, and clean me up in the bathtub later,” and flops back into his previous place. Dark soft hair frolics up to tease Chris’s chin, getting in the last word.  
  
“Love you too,” Anthony says, half-awake himself. Don yawns and squeezes Seb’s thigh in wordless affirmation, plus a grunt.  
  
Matt pokes Chris in the bicep from the other side. “Thank you for inviting me, Jesus, fuck, wow, did I say thank you.”  
  
“ ’S his birthday present,” Chris yawns back. “You just came early.” Anthony’s not too tired to snicker. “Stay as long as you want.”  
  
“Sounds like a plan,” Matt sighs, head on Chris’s shoulder. “Wake me up when we’re getting in your ocean of a bathtub, Evans.”  
  
“Mmm,” Chris says, closing eyes—just for a second, someone needs to stay awake, and he’s holding Seb—and letting the world fall away. Tranquility blooms like night stars around them. Through his heart, through his body, surrounded by loving other bodies and Sebastian’s weight on his chest. Down to happy bare toes.  
  
Down the hall, out in the entryway, beyond the living room, their front door creaks open.  
  
He opens eyes. Stares confusedly at the ceiling. Feels his muscles tense up.  
  
And then he laughs to himself, careful not to disturb the long-legged kitten resting atop him. That’s a key-sound in that door, and a click of high heels; only three other people have keys to this house, and his mom and his brother had been home in Boston as of two hours ago when they’d talked, so—  
  
The high heels tap down the hallway to the bedroom door and stop, framed by enthusiastic architecture. Chris knows the feeling, and tips his head up to grin at the arrival.  
  
“Hello, boys,” Hayley proclaims, beaming. She’s lovely and brilliant as ever, ear to ear grin and mischievous hair and a butterfly-patterned scarf at her throat; she regards Sebastian and the rest of the napping pile with affectionate amusement. “Anthony texted to inform me that the _other_ half of his birthday-present arrived early, and I was in San Diego already in any case, so I headed up here to join in early as well. Have you worn him out already?”  
  
“Only temporarily.” Chris steadies Sebastian’s sleeping head on his shoulder. “He’ll be thrilled you’re here.”  
  
“Indeed he will,” she agrees brightly, hoisting her bag, coming towards the bed to shed clothing and join them, “especially when he sees the presents I’ve brought to use on him when he wakes up.”


End file.
